flax-golden

springtime wisdom imparted by flirtatious rabbits

On sunny days in the spring I like to sit out in the field, usually with a book and a green tea lemonade. Sometimes the rabbits come very close like they want to see what I’m reading but this was the first time one of them actually struck up a conversation.

There were some almost-awkward pauses and a few clumsy remarks about the weather and he seemed like he might bolt back across the field at any moment, but eventually he settled down for a good long chat.

He mentioned that he doesn’t like carrots, which I found surprising but he called it a cartoon-propagated rabbit stereotype.

He nibbled clover while I sipped my green tea lemonade.

We talked about life and about change. About heartbreaks and choices and difficulties, spring-blooming, equinox rebirth and new possibilities.

He told me that he prefers to hop higher when the ground gets difficult to walk on. His tone suggested this was something of a metaphor.

In that mid-air moment, he said, it feels like flying.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

monitoring system

We were on the waiting list for almost six months before we got our new apartment. The realtor kept talking about the list as a positive, like the building is superior because it has a list.

It could be that it’s small or that people ask to live here for the sake of being on a waiting list, as though a building you can waltz right into simply isn’t as cool.

The building is actually quite cool, though, with lots of brick and odd corners. The kind of building you’d be wary of playing hide-and-seek in because you might never be found.

Technically I don’t think I was supposed to be in the fenced-off part near the back gardens where I found the tangle of pipes and meters that would have been practically invisible against the brick in the shadows but I happened to be there when the sun was falling just right to see them clearly.

At first I thought it was some sort of plumbing or heating thing, the meters were labeled so I found the one for our apartment and the display said Moderate Contentment – Acclimating with the little arrow pointing towards the top.

I checked a few of the others and they said things like Mild Annoyance – Passing and High Contentment – Maintaining.

I asked the building manager about them and he called it a “Monitoring System.”

He just smiled at me when I asked if he ever needs to make adjustments.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

ever-changing endearments

I shall write you a thousand love letters in a multitude of colors.

Scrawl them in chalk on the pavement outside your house.

(Though some will be neatly written and artistically composed, easier to decipher than the almost-illegible passionate scrawls.)

They will be washed away by rain or snow or street sweepers.

Scuffed into dust by the soles of passing shoes.

There is no way to protect them from such things.

They may even vanish before you have a chance to read them.

But when the ground is clear and dry again I will write more messages, with new words and different color combinations.

That way my love will never fade.

It will be renewed and changed and it will grow with each iteration.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

of impractical footwear and inevitabilities 

He started walking on a Tuesday.

It wasn’t snowing when he left but the flakes began to fall within hours of his departure, as he knew they would.

His shiny leather shoes were not well-suited for the weather, but that did not deter him.

He kept a steady pace as his shoes slowly lost their shine, and his toes grew colder.

He never looked back. Not once did he turn to see the line of footprints that marked his progress, though they never lasted long.

Trails left in snow are difficult to follow.

But that didn’t matter.

He knew it would catch up with him eventually.

It always did.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

necessary supplies

My sister takes this bag with her everywhere, like a Mary Poppins bag only hers actually gets bigger from putting so much stuff in it so it’s practically as big as she is but she still carries it all the time, no matter where she goes.

Someday she’ll be an excellent nomad.

Right now it just slows her down when we walk, especially in the snow. I make a point to leave twenty minutes early whenever I have to take her anywhere. Even beyond the bag she gets easily distracted by all sorts of things, but if I complain to Mom about it she says I need to allow her to fully explore her curiosity and doesn’t seem to care that between her curiosity and her giant bag we’re always late for things, but Mom also says things like time is an illusion.

“What are you doing?” I ask my sister as she stops mid-walk to pull a scarf from her bag and tie it around a tree.

“Trees get cold,” she says, as though this is an obvious fact.

“Someone’s just going to take it,” I tell her, but she only shrugs.

“That’s okay. Maybe they’re cold, too.”

She gives the tree a friendly pat and then hefts her bag back on her shoulder so we can continue our slow journey through the snow.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.

princesses

My mother is thrilled when I get the position at the castle, though a mother’s pride is likely the only thrill that accompanies a position as a castle maid. Of course, she will tell her friends that I work at the castle and leave the maid part out entirely.

On my first day the head maid takes me on a tour and it is somewhat thrilling. The castle itself is grand and sprawling and I can see why they need such a large staff. The head maid tells me as we walk that I will be assigned to certain rooms and I will likely never see much of the rest of the castle again. I will rarely, if ever, see the king.

The courtyards are lush and green, dotted with fountains and sculptures, and around the edges there are strange large urns, each painted a bright, cheerful color.

What are those? I ask my guide, moving to point but she grabs my hand and shakes her head, looking over her shoulder before leaning to whisper in my ear.

That’s where he puts the princesses when he’s finished with them.

I start to smile, thinking it a joke, but her expression stays serious and somber as we walk by urn after urn, yellow and purple and pink.

About flax-golden tales. Photo by Carey Farrell. Text by Erin Morgenstern.